The Duchess mused. “You are a singular pair of gentlemen, and wondrous tender to the child’s feelings. I can see you are both in love with her. Prithee lead me at once to this enchainer of hearts.”
The Spainneach’s face appeared in the doorway, and his hand beckoned to Alastair.
“My lady’s woman has descended and is distracted by the sight of strange servants. It seems her mistress desires Sir John’s company, which was promised for this hour, and the maid will not return without a clear answer.”
“Say that he is detained,” said Alastair, “and add that the Duchess of Queensberry begs the lady’s permission to wait upon her.”
He turned to the two at the fireplace. “Madam, ’tis time for your mission of charity.”
“Repeat me my lesson,” she said, standing before him as demure as a schoolgirl.
“You will inform the lady that Sir John Norreys has been summoned in great haste to join his Prince, and has left incontinent, trusting to her loyal heart to condone his seeming heartlessness. Say that he will find means to keep her informed of his welfare. Then press her to travel southward with you, pointing out to her that the war moves southward and she will be travelling the same way as Sir John.”
“ ’Tis a parcel of lies,” said the Duchess, “and I am a poor dissembler.”
Alastair shrugged his shoulders. “The cause is good and your Grace is a finished actress, when you please.”
“But is it not cruel kindness?” she asked. “Were it not better that she should know the truth of her husband, that she might grieve the less when she has news of his end, which I see writ plain in your eyes, sir?”
Johnson broke in. “A thousand times no, madam. If she learns that her trust has been ill placed, her heart will break. She can bear sorrow but not shame. Believe me, I have studied that noble lady.”
“So be it. Have the goodness, Captain Maclean, to escort me to this paragon.”
Alastair gave her his arm, and, instructed by Johnson—who followed in the wake—conducted the Duchess up the first flight of the staircase to a broad gallery from which the main bedrooms opened. At the end, where were Claudia’s rooms, the maid, Mrs. Peckover, stood with a lighted candle to receive them.
But suddenly they halted and stood motionless, listening. A voice was singing, the voice which had sung “Diana” at the Sleeping Deer. The door must have been ajar, for the song rose clear in the corridor, sung low but with such a tension of feeling that every word and bar seemed to vibrate in the air. The Duchess, clinging to Alastair’s arm, stood rigid as a statue. “O Love,” the voice sang—
“O Love, they wrong thee much
That say thy sweet is bitter.
When thy rich fruit is such
As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest treasure is,
I do adore thee.”
The voice hung on the lines for an instant in a tremor of passion. Then it continued to a falling close—
“I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my heart,
And fall before thee.”
“I think you do well to be tender of her,” the Duchess whispered. “Adieu! I will descend presently and report.”
The heavy hand of Johnson clutched his arm before he had reached the foot of the staircase.
“Did you hear that?” the tutor questioned savagely. “She sings of love like an angel of God, and her love is betrayed.” He forced Alastair before him, and shut the door of the dining-room behind them. The candles still burned brightly amid the remains of supper, but the logs on the hearth had smouldered low.
Johnson was become the strangest of figures, his sallow face flushed, his eyes rolling like a man in a fit, and a nervousness like palsy affecting his hands and shoulders. But Alastair saw none of these things, for his attention was held by something masterful and noble in the man’s face.
“Sit down, Alastair Maclean,” he said, “and listen to one who loves you as a brother. Sir, we are both servants of one lady and that is a bond stricter than consanguinity. I am poor and diseased and disconsidered, but I have a duty laid upon me which comes direct from Omnipotence. Sir, I command you to examine into your heart.”
He laid a hand on the young man’s arm, a hand that trembled violently.
“What are your intentions toward Sir John Norreys?”
“I mean to find him, and, when found, to fight with him and kill him.”
“For what reason?”
“Because he is a traitor to my Prince.”
“And yet you did not press for the death of the man Kyd, who was the principal whereas Sir John was but the tool. Come, sir, be honest with me; why is the extreme penalty decreed to the less guilty?”
Alastair did not answer at first. Then he said—
“Because Sir John Norreys is the husband of a lady to whom the knowledge of his true nature would be death.”
“That reply is nearer the truth, but still far from complete honesty.”
Alastair had a sudden flame of wrath. “Do you accuse me of lying?” he asked angrily.
Johnson’s face did not change. “Sir, all men are liars,” he said. “I strive to make you speak truth to your own soul. The death of Sir John is intended merely to save the lady from the pain of disgrace? On your honour, for no other purpose?”
Alastair did not reply. The other sank his harsh voice to a gentler and kindlier pitch, and the hand on
